


Colchisian Scripture

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Alcohol, Body Modification, Gen, Tattoos, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 21:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10625652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: "but is Lorgar's taint tattooedinquiring minds want to know"And so, a fic was born - is being the artist picked for that job an honour or a terrible, terrible punishment? One old man, in a distant space tavern, knows the truth....





	

**Author's Note:**

> Initial ponderings here: http://the-pournival.tumblr.com/post/86606701038
> 
> (We are sorry, and also not sorry.)

The bar was emptier than it looked, if one counted the actual number of inhabitants. The reason for its apparent fullness was that almost every patron sat apart from any others, bent over a drink on their own, cloaked by an invisible force-field of self-interest. At a later hour, more people would be drawn in by the lonely flicker of neon outside and could well find themselves breaching one of those barriers, unknowingly stumbling into a harmless (if unutterably dreary) trap.

For all their individual differences, the old dogs lurking here in solitude had one thing in common: stories that they could tell. Or, to be more accurate, stories that they _would_ tell, unfailingly, unvaryingly, to any that happened to cross their path, whether the listener was willing or not. They gave each other a wide berth because they had all heard each other’s tales many times over and all privately thought the others either bold-faced liars or shame-faced failures, or some combination of the two. Age and liquor had generally hardened them to the point where they would voice such accusations – an ensnared stranger never dared, lest they offend the yarn-spinner – and start a fight.

And nobody wanted a fight. Even if they were still capable of physical brawling, all they wanted was to be left alone, save for three or four unfortunate visitors per night to be subjected to their reminiscences. Only one man bucked the trend, and that had made him a legend in his own right.

“All of us,” one of the indentured soaks would likely remark to his or her latest captive audience. “All of us could tell you a tale of the ages… ‘cept him, of course.”

A thumb (augmetic or flesh) would be jerked in the direction of the thin man at the end of the bar, which would of course pique the listener’s interest.

“Why?” they would ask, intrigued by this new detail and the possibility of escaping the clutches of their companion’s memory. “Doesn’t he have a story?”

“Of course he does. But he don’t want to talk about it.”

And that would be the end of that.

Except it wouldn’t – about half of them would approach the silent figure, and all of those would be rebuffed. A wave of an ink-covered hand, a few curt words no doubt, and they were left to wonder while he was left to brood. Even buying him a drink wouldn’t help, apparently.

Occasionally, they tried a different tack.

“Why?” said a young guardswoman, hard-eyed and stout-muscled, clutching a pint glass in one hand. The aquila etched onto its side was mostly obscured by a greasy thumbprint. “Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

The old man sighed, and offered no reply besides that.

“What’s so bad that you can’t put words to it? I know people who’ve seen all the horrors the galaxy’s got and more, and they still manage a sentence or two.” She thumped her glass down on the bar and her hindquarters down on a stool, much to his dismay. Her eyes fell on the intricate patterns covering his forearms, laid bare by a tattered sleeveless shirt. His skin was the shade of old parchment, the natural colouring of the Indo-Pacific peoples of Terra weathered by years, but the tattoos still had a stark beauty to them. They would be the envy of any skilled artist.

“Nice ink,” she said. “Where’d you get it?”

“I did it myself,” he muttered almost inaudibly, then winced as if surprised by his own voice.

“Really?” she squinted closer. “Damn. You’re good, then. Great. More than great -.”

“I was the greatest of my day,” he stated reluctantly.

“So what happened?”

With that, he clammed up again. Sniffed and stared into the bottom of his glass.

She sat there, and called for another drink. Her fifth or sixth, whichever it was – enough to embolden her, at any rate, even if the stuff they served here couldn’t put down a grox-calf.

“D’you get to old to hold the needle? Your hands don’t shake though, I can see that.”

“They’re as steady as they ever were,” he mumbled with a hint of defensiveness. “I was trained by the masters before me, in skills handed down from the glory days of Ancient Terra. And I surpassed my _sensei_ when the time came, and they flocked to my gates in their legions….”

The word ‘legions’ seemed to jolt him a little, and he sat up straighter as if stung.

“And…?” she prompted. This old man seemed more interesting than the others. Or at least less self-absorbed.

“Well, I worked.” He shrugged, willing to part with this much information at least. “On the great and the good. On a few you might have heard of and others that move in their own circles, and some that had no claim to glory at all. They would climb the mountains to see me and camp outside my door – and if I thought them worthy, I would let them in. Nobles, paupers, soldiers, artisans, humans and -.”

“And non-humans?”

“Well, yes. Not xenos, I mean….”

“ _Post-humans_?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I had an illustrious career and it is now ended, please go away.”

“You worked on _Astartes_?” she was leaning forward in disbelief, though her hand never left her glass.

“A select few,” he said curtly. “No different from any other job. Just more skin to work on.”

“I didn’t know they could even be marked. Not permanently.”

“Then you’ve never seen one. It can be done without too much hassle. You don’t need a special technique. Not like with -.” And he stopped short.

“With…?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Come on, you’ve told me this much. What am I gonna do, spill your ancient Terran secrets? I’m off-world tomorrow and I don’t know anyone in this shithole. Let them think you’re the strong silent type if you want, I won’t tell.”

“Have you ever heard of the Word Bearers?” he snapped suddenly.

“Of course. They’re zealots. Nutters. And all about words, apparently. Why, did you work on one of them?”

“I did. But not a legionary, no.”

“Then who? Was it…” she worked it out, after a minute. “The _primarch?_ Really?”

He nodded miserably.

“You’re not pulling my leg? Honestly? You worked on a _primarch_?”

“Honestly.”

“Isn’t his face covered in golden letters or something?”

“A holy script, from their home planet. And not just his face. Head to toe. Some of it is by me, yes, and some by other artists – all the best of the best. Every inch of Lord Aurelian’s body is tattooed with scripture that shines like soft metal in the light.”

She laughed quietly, half incredulous and half awed.

“Which inches did you do, then?”

“That,” he said gravely, “is what I don’t want to talk about.”


End file.
